Codex in Disguise: Drabbles from the CiD Forums
by CoraxOnyx
Summary: Various Transformers drabbles written in response to prompts at the Comics in Disguise forums.  Mostly G1.  Each drabble will be tagged with characters and setting as well as the prompts.
1. In the Backfield

Title: In the Backfield

Series: G1 Cartoon

Characters: Ratchet, Cliffjumper, Megatron, Bombshell

Prompt: "Hiding behind/under Cliffjumper."

Rating: G

The battle had started badly. Three of the minibots; Huffer, Beachcomber and Cliffjumper had been taken down in the initial assault. As Ratchet crept from one to the other, dodging laser blasts and the hurrying feet and wheels of his comrades as they rushed forward he tried to recall just what they were after this time. Prime has said something about a transducer or transponder or something. Those pesky humans just insisted on building things for the Decepticons to steal. It didn't really matter to him, though. He had to get to his 'bots and tend their wounds.

He was crouched next to the prone, and thankfully silent, form of Cliffjumper. A laser blast had reset the little guy's relays, and destroyed his legs below the knee-joint. Some bots were much easier to work on while they were offline, and Cliffjumper was high on that list. The Autobot medic sealed the ruptured energon lines in the shattered limbs. He was running a rough diagnostic for additional injuries when he heard the crunch of a heavy tread on gravel and the rasp of a harsh laugh.

"What are you doing, Medic? Hiding behind this deactivated scrap?"

Ratchet looked up into the singed and grinning visage of Megatron. The Decepticon leader brought his fusion cannon up and the ominous whine of its charging power filled the air.

"I' m not hiding behind Cliffjumper," Ratchet said, shifting slightly to cover more of the minibot with his own frame. How had the Decepticon gotten behind their lines?

"So I see," Megatron said casually. "You're wasted fixing this scrap, Medic. Why not join the Decepticon cause?"

It was not a complete surprise. Megatron had made a similar offer before, on Cybertron. And Ratchet would give him the same answer.

"I'd rather..." he began, then hesitated. The sounds of the continuing battle seemed far away. He looked quickly around and noticed that other than the prone minibots, he and Megatron were the only ones here. Maybe it would be smarter not to be adamantly defiant. "Not," he ended lamely.

"Oh?" the big Decepticon said with a chuckle. "That's too bad, for you," he lifted his arm, but rather than a fusion cannon burst a small black and purple thing flew out from between his fingers. "Bombshell, help our friend Ratchet to _change_ his mind, won't you?"

Bombshell flew toward the medic and perched on the chevron of his helm. Ratchet knew it would take the Insecticon only a few astroseconds to drill through the metal to implant a cerebro-shell. The shell would take over Ratchet's mind and make him a willing slave to the Decepticons, a fate almost worse than deactivation.

"Now sit still and let our good friend, Bombshell do his work, won't you?" asked Megatron in a horrible parody of courtesy. "Otherwise, I might just lose my patience and then, well, who knows what might happen," he gestured ominously to the still forms of Huffer and Beachcomber by his feet.

Ratchet twitched as the tiny drill dug into the plating on his forehead, but he forced himself to remain as still as possible. He couldn't let his friends die. But he couldn't allow himself to be taken by the Decepticons, either. He sent out a frantic S.O.S. on the Autobot emergency channel, but only received the squeal of blocking static that was Soundwave's contribution to every battle.

What other options did he have? He shuttered his optics, hearing the high pitched whirr of the Insecticon's probe as it inched toward his processor. Idly he wondered if injured Decepticons would be more difficult patients than certain Autobots he had to deal with. And in a flash he knew what to do.

Keeping the outward facing part of his body as still as possible, Ratchet felt along the base of Cliffjumper's helm for the reset switch on his neck. He paused to send a brief plea to Primus for luck and triggered the switch.

The red Autobot jerked up, howling with rage, tumbling Ratchet aside. The medic swiped at his helm as he rolled and felt the satisfying crunch as he crushed the tiny Insecticon against the metal of his head. He continued to roll away, frantically dodging the expected fusion cannon burst that melted the ground behind him.

But now Megatron had problems of his own, Cliffjumper had produced his ridiculously huge gun from subspace and was taking potshots at the Decepticon from his semi-reclined position on the ground and merrily swearing all the while. Cliffjumper was not a great shot, but he was enthusiastic and the commotion drew even more effective help. With a rumble and clang, Optimus Prime drove onto the scene, transforming swiftly to tackle Megatron and bring the big gray Decepticon to the ground. Megatron was quickly up again and took to the air, calling for retreat.

As Prime stood sentinel above his medic, watching the enemy fly away, Ratchet turned back to Cliffjumper. The little red Autobot was craning his neck, trying to see his feet.

"I guess I'm out of the fight for a while, huh, Docbot?" Cliffjumper asked.

"You've earned a rest," Ratchet replied.

"Yeah," the feisty Autobot said, "but the next time you decide to set up an ambush like that, let a guy know first, OK?"

"I would," Ratchet replied with a smile and a rueful rub at the hole in his forehead, "but there's no other way to keep you quiet."


	2. Scavenger Digs a Big Hole

Title: Scavenger Digs a Big Hole

Series: G1 Cartoon

Characters: Scavenger, Scrapper, Megatron

Prompt: Base the story on the setting. Add a human for extra credit.

North of Istanbul and east of the Bosporus is a quiet, lonely valley. It is named the Galata valley, not because it gently slopes toward the sea, (which it does), or because sheep and goats sometimes graze on the scrubby, fragrant herbs that grow here, (although they do), but because it was once home to the ancient Celts. And these fierce warriors and gifted craftsmen earned their name for this place by taming a great evil here.

And now the usually quiet valley is busy with activity. Massive metal creatures stalk up and down the slope and trample upon the herbs. And in one particular place a neat hole is being dug.

XXXXX XXXXX XXXXX

The soil was crumbly and yielded before the tender sweepings of his scoop in a satisfying way. He reached out again to stroke the high wall before him and another cool damp mass of dirt cascaded down to pile around his treads. He loved the softness of it, loved the variety of signals the chemicals within sent tingling through the sensor array in his digging arm. And he loved the meaning of it. He was the only one who could dig like this, who could be trusted to peel away the layers of earth and discover the prize within. It gave him worth. He repositioned himself and lifted away the loose sand and clay to expose the packed surface below. Delicately he positioned his shovel tip and swept at the earth, testing and sensing to find what he sought.

"_Hurry UP, Scrounge_," snarled Scrapper on the Constructicons' private frequency. "_You've been in that hole for nearly a breem now. Megatron is getting impatient._"

The transmission was followed by the thump and crunch of heavy feet above him as Megatron himself glowered down at the dusty green and purple steam shovel. "Well, Scavenger?" he growled. "Where's my Pearl?"

Scavenger was unused to being directly addressed by the Decepticon Commander and his processor grasped wildly for a satisfactory response to give his Leader.

"I-I-I haven t found it yet, Mighty Megatron. I m still looking, though." He swept the scoop of his shovel around the precisely crafted hole to demonstrate his diligence.

"I didn't arrange this entire operation, distract the Autobots and spend too much energon on those miserable Stunticons to be failed by YOU, Constructicon. Find me that Pearl now or I'll have you disassembled!" His ultimatum delivered, Megatron turned on his heel, knocking a shower of loose dry dirt onto the Constructicon below, and stomped away.

Scavenger sagged on his struts. The human archaeologist, Dr. Terranova, insisted that the Pearl of Bahoudin was a fragile artifact. And the Constructicons had learned very quickly that even the sturdiest of Earth artifacts did not withstand manhandling by Cybertronians. They usually just tore human structures down and rebuilt them as it saved time and reduced Megatron's tantrums, but now they were forced to work on the humans scale. He rather enjoyed the finicky work, but it was very slow and Megatron's threat sounded serious.

It was a Constructicon truism that you could do things quickly, or you could do them right. Scavenger knew he would be in vastly more trouble if he damaged the Pearl while unearthing it, so he resigned himself to continue at his slow careful pace. The next shallow scrape of soil uncovered a hard and knobby object. He ran his sensors over it. It was a lightweight calcium/phosphorous matrix, wrapped in some thin, flexible carbon-based sheets. There were several gold and mineral objects tucked inside the wrappings, but none of them were large enough to be the Pearl he sought. It was a lumpy oval with a pointed end and a rounded end; but what could it be?

Curiously, he lifted the thing up with his scoop, but in doing so, a part of it dropped away and rolled into a corner. When it came to a stop he found himself looking down into the empty optic sockets of a tiny smooth topped helmet. No, not a helmet a head. A human head or, more accurately, the thing inside a human head that gives the wet flesh its shape. This lump must once have been a human. And now it was here in the bottom of his hole.

Scavenger did not feel any fear or disgust at the sight of the dead organic. But he was curious. He had seen a few human corpses in his time, but he had never before given much consideration to what happened to them when the Decepticons moved on. He guessed that they were smelted or enshrined, depending upon the worth of the individual, just like a Cybertronian would be. Maybe this human had died all alone in this valley with no companions to care for his remains and the Earth itself had covered it up. That seemed somehow fitting, if a little sad. Scavenger was grateful to think of his Constructicon gestalt-mates tending to him should he fall in combat. It would never be his fate to rust in some unknown corner of the universe. Gently he laid the rest of the bundle by the empty eyed skull and continued to uncover its resting place.

After another short moment of digging, he heard a scrape and felt the tang of metal through his sensors. A bladed weapon crudely made but obviously potent had been lying next to the dead human. It was made of extremely impure iron and had been beaten into shape with heavy blows. Scavenger could not guess what use the dead human might have had for such a weapon, but it did fit his idea that the creature had been all alone when it collapsed and died. He imagined it had been a warrior, defeated and dying, seeking a place to lie undisturbed by its enemies. The weapon was a testimony to its skill, as it had not been taken away as a trophy of battle. 'Well done, warrior-human,' thought Scavenger to himself.

His theory was challenged a moment later however when he uncovered a sturdy stone box. It was as long as the human was tall and by itself weighted several times more than the human would have when it was alive. The top of the box was covered with carvings and he transformed to bring his optics closer to examine them.

He knelt to brush away the soil and revealed a dramatic scene. At the center was inscribed a perfect sphere which was surrounded by a nimbus of twisted and curling lines. In the four corners of the rectangular lid, the lines curled around many tiny blocky human figures. The faces of the humans were wracked with agony and their limbs were contorted into unnatural poses. A border of jagged lines framed the unsettling image.

Scavenger contemplated it. He could easily guess that the central sphere was the Pearl he sought. The human legends were very clear about its destructive power. The box lid clearly cautioned any discoverer of its contents. But why was there a dead human lying on top of the box? And what purpose did the sword serve? Had the creature come to take the Pearl for itself? That didn't seem too likely. A single human would have had difficulty lifting the stone lid, even with an iron sword for leverage. No, it appeared that the human had been placed here at the same time as the box.

Scavenger thought back to his time on Cybertron. He had once known a Guardian robot. When not actively defending his city the giant would often stand before it motionless and watchful. His mere presence was a warning to all enemies. Had the dead human been another such guardian? Had it lain here silent in the dark while the earth, carried by water and wind, piled up around it? Had it been chosen to ward this deadly danger at the cost of its own life? How much courage had that required?

'And now the enemy has come,' Scavenger admitted. He glanced over at the silent bundle in the corner. 'And what can the guardian do?'

Scavenger shuddered, thinking of the rage of another Guardian when his treasure was destroyed. Omega Supreme had vowed his revenge on them then, and his recent appearance on Earth had caused the Constructicons some serious concerns. They had all been so sure that he was destroyed during the long millennia while they were in stasis. But he was back again, and his implacable strength added to the Autobot ranks was forcing Megatron to take greater and greater risks against his enemies. It was the private opinion of the Constructicons that the Pearl of Bahoudin was too dangerous to use inside the Earth s atmosphere, but Megatron insisted that the artifact be unearthed.

Faintly from above his head Scavenger heard Megatron bark a command. The melodious warble of Soundwave's reply refocused the Constructicon on his task. The Decepticon communications officer had been ordered to discover the reason for his further delay and he was not going to be found dreamily picking through old human bones. He was a Decepticon, loyal to the cause, and about to prove his worth.

With strong metal fingers he levered open the stone coffer. A gleaming pile of gold rings, cups and dishes; and elaborately worked swords and armor filled most of the box. It was an ancient treasure that would have awed a human discoverer, but the Constructicon merely brushed the precious hoard aside to pluck out an ugly, gaudy golden sphere. As soon as he touched it, he sensed the incredible power of the object contained within the thick gold casing. With a last glance at the impotent Guardian he stood and cried out, "I think I've found something!"


	3. It's Probably Me

Title: It's Probably Me

Continuity: Exodus/WFC with a little Megs Origin

Prompt: A single bout in the Kaon Fighting Pits

Characters: Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, Megatron

Rating: T (for violence of the robot kind and robot swearing)

Author's Note: Another one for the Comics in Disguise drabble workshop. As per the rulz (As decreed by teh Prime) there is no build up and no aftermath. I cannot promise no flashback/context establishment as this is actually a story and not just a fight description. I apologize if it's a little dark, but violence is dark and hurty. I do not apologize for things that may or may not make people laugh as they are cliches and such. I can't help but think of my audience at times like these. Also, there are briefly fembots.

The red robot grinned as he hoisted his flailing opponent and held him suspended upside-down for a long moment. The crowd roared its approval as he slowly spun in place, flaunting his prowess. He scanned the eager faces and excitedly glowing optics of the 'bots in the amphitheater as he revolved.

His roving optic lighted upon a cluster of newling femmebots in the front rows and his grin widened. He leaped into the air, driving his opponent's head into the floor between his descending knees. Then he jumped back as the yellow mech toppled to the ground in a heap. The crowd howled, revving engines and whining turbines mixing with the cheers to buffet him with an almost physical din.

Sideswide trotted over to the gaggle of femmes. "So," he said, leaning nonchalantly on the waist high barrier that encompassed the fighting ring. "How'm I doing so far?" The neophytes giggled and clutched one another. Their bright optics were fixed on him. He basked, enjoying their mute admiration. "Any special requests?"

One in the front, clad in red like himself, graced him with a wicked smile. "I think you should keep your optics on the fight."

"Wha?" he began as a pair of square black hands grabbed his neck and wrenched him over backwards.

"Oops," the red femme chuckled, "too late." And the femmes broke into peals of laughter as Sideswipe looked up into the blazing blue optics of his opponent, and brother, Sunstreaker.

"Hi Sunny," he said, with a little wave. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Slagger!" Sunstreaker swore as he kicked viciously at his downed brother, but Sideswipe twisted deftly aside, tucked into a shoulder roll and came up to another cheer from the crowd. He was definitely the favorite tonight and Sunstreaker was obviously annoyed about it.

"Hey bro," Sideswipe said, backing away toward the center of the ring. "You gotta relax."

Sunstreaker launched himself forward, grabbing his brother's helmet and tucking his head under his arm. He then pounded his fist against Sideswipe's back and sides while he hissed in an undertone, "No, Sides, YOU need to focus. This fight is IMPORTANT."

Sideswipe bucked and twisted as the clanging fist echoed off of his armor. It didn't hurt, much, but Sunstreaker was also squeezing his head pretty hard under his arm. "C'mon Sunny," he protested. "We made you look good the last time. It's my turn."

"Sides," Sunstreaker said. "We're not playing this time." And he spun Sideswipe away with a rough twist. "You have to take this seriously."

Sideswipe gingerly probed his twisted and squeezed neck. Nothing seemed to be broken, yet, but his neck linkages were definitely misaligned. "I am," he protested. "We won the last few rounds, but I'm behind in the overall standings, so you take a dive on this one and we both advance."

His brother knew how the Kaon tournament worked, and they had discussed their contingency strategy should they wind up facing one another in any of the lower brackets. Whoever was behind in points got to win after a good flashy fight. Once they reached the top bracket, the winner would take the prize and share it with his brother. The credits and prestige should be enough to get them out of their low caste assignments and into something much more appealing. It was an elegant plan. Sunstreaker was so competitive though, he probably wanted to invalidate their deal just so he could advance on his own.

But Sideswipe also wanted to win and he didn't mind pummeling his brother a bit to do it. He stepped back and flipped out his piledriver arms. Then he charged forward, striking the ground with several resounding blows that made his brother skip and jink to dodge out of the way. Sideswipe followed to press his advantage.

Sunstreaker changed his tactics. He transformed into vehicle mode, a low slung golden ground speeder with reinforced bumpers front and aft. He slewed around, then kicked forward and struck Sideswipe full force, knocking him across the arena and rolling him into the wall. A splatter of energon from a cracked line in his arm glowed briefly pink against the floor before fading. The crowd rewarded Sunstreaker's move with enthusiastic yells. "Get him! Run him down!"

Sideswipe shook his head to clear his jarred and fritzing processor and clambered to his feet, The yellow speedster was turning and accelerating to come along the wall.

Sideswipe barely dodged out of the way, clouting the hood with a piledriver as it passed, and heard a simultaneous howl of outrage from his brother and a shout of approval from the audience. It was only a delaying tactic, though. Sunstreaker's speed in vehicle mode gave him more destructive power that Sideswipe cared to face. He transformed. His own vehicle form was similarly outfitted to that of his brother and he had a comparable rate of speed. The two circled one another, gunning their engines and seeking for an opening.

Sunstreaker darted forward, and his bumper scraped against Sideswipe's rear corner panel. "Sides," he muttered," you have to know something."

Sideswipe pulled away, noting with satisfaction as he passed them that the young femmes from earlier were now sitting rigid with suspense. See, even when Sunstreaker didn't cooperate, they still put on a great show. Sunny should have been doing the "angry warrior" act from the beginning. It contrasted well with his own more lighthearted approach.

Sunstreaker moved forward, nudging him and scraping more paint. "Sideswipe," he said low and urgent. "HE'S here. He's watching us. I got told just before the fight."

Sideswipe dashed ahead again. Who was Sunstreaker talking about? And then he realized. Megatron. The legendary gladiator who was the boss of the Pits. The brothers had seen him a few times. He was a massive, red-eyed, brooding presence. Megatron's name was synonymous with two things: death and glory and they said that mechs who caught his attention were marked for one or the other.

The red racer recalled seeing Sunstreaker talking to Rumble, one of Megatron's errand runners just before the fight, but the little runt and his brother Frenzy often hung out with the junior fighters. And they liked Sunstreaker. They had done their own time in the Pits and often had good advice for someone who had potential. Had Rumble also been scouting out likely mechs for the death matches? And had he picked the brothers to bring to his Boss's attention? A cold-sparked choice for the sake of drama. He and Sunstreaker were good fighters, but they weren't ready to take another mech's life. Were they?

Sideswipe shuddered and Sunstreaker clipped him again, sending him into a barely controlled fishtail spin.

He spun to a halt in the center of the ring. And before he could accelerate again, a rasping booming voice echoed through the huge room. "We're here for a FIGHT."

Instantly Sideswipe spotted the speaker. The huge grey mech sat at his ease in a seat near the top of the arena. He was flanked by his usual collection of followers, other fighters, groundpounders and several delicate flyers. His enigmatic majordomo Soundwave stood rigidly behind his employer and a tall, quietly composed mech sitting to Megatron's right looked down at the red fighter with a mixture of amusement and worry in his clear blue optics.

"I promised my good friend Orion a fight," the gladiator continued, gesturing graciously at the blue and red mech on his right hand. "Now quit scrambling around and give me one."

"Told you," Sunstreaker cried as he transformed and leaped on his dazed brother. The force of his blow rocked Sideswipe off of his repulsors and left him lying on his side in the middle of the ring. His processor was whirring. He knew the rumors. Mechs died in Kaon. Megatron wanted a show for his friend. One of the brothers would have to die to supply it.

"Transform," Sunstreaker called as he gestured to encourage the crowd's renewed cheering. "Transform, you slagger, and let's finish this."

"Sunny..." Sideswipe began. "Brother, I can't kill you."

Sunstreaker's warrior facade cracked for a bare astrosecond and a strange gentle smile flitted across his faceplates. "Well then, my coldslag stupid brother, transform and fight. I promise you we'll get out of this," he said earnestly, "but we can't afford to let him get restless. He might change the odds."

Suddenly Sideswipe understood. The game hadn't changed. The brothers were going to finish the fight together and they were going to have to be convincing.

"You know this is as far as we go, right?" Sunstreaker said as he kicked his brother in the undercarriage.

"Fine by me," Sideswipe said, and transformed. "I think you're vain enough as it is."

Sunstreaker reached down and hauled his brother up. They faced each other for a long moment. The excited hum of the crowd took on an ominous tone. Then, simultaneously, the brothers dropped into fighting crouches. Sideswipe swept at his brother's legs, knocking his shin guards off. Sunstreaker stepped in and jabbed Sideswipe in the chest, cracking the polymer alloy of his vehicle sensors. Sideswipe grabbed, and the brothers pulled into a clinch of flailing limbs and blows. When Sideswipe broke away again, his knuckles were pink and glowing with energon. Sunstreaker was smeared and dented and swayed slightly to compensate for the damage to his torso actuators. They were picking each other apart, slowly. Too slowly.

With a sudden savage roundhouse kick, Sunstreaker staved in the side of his brother's face. Sideswipe staggered back, pain sensors screaming as the chant began rising.

"'Til all are one! 'Til all are one! 'Til all are one!"

Forcing his cracked and sparking optics to focus, Sideswipe lunged forward and seized his brother's right arm. With a tearing wrench, he pulled it off and tossed it to the ground.

Sunstreaker's wailing keen spurred the crowd to chant louder, "'Til all are one! 'Til all are one! 'Til all are one!"

Sideswipe staggered forward again, grasping for his brother. His hand locked around Sunstreaker's throat and he began to squeeze, compressing the energon and coolant lines to the CPU. At the same moment, he felt his brother's hand batter a hole in his torso and clasp the lines around his spark.

The chant became a scream, "'Til ALL are ONE! 'Til ALL are ONE! 'Til ALL are ONE!"

"Ready brother?" Sunstreaker's static-laced voice rasped in his audial as his fist churned below Sideswipe's pulsing Spark.

"Ready." Sideswipe agreed, shifting his grip to grasp the fragile and sensitive cables in Sunstreaker's neck.

"'TIL ALL ARE ONE! 'TIL ALL ARE ONE! 'TIL ALL ARE..."

"Three...," they started, "Two...ONE!"

The red and golden bodies dropped to the floor of the arena. The crowd erupted in a wordless bellow of adulation and release. The gray mech nodded and then he and his party rose and left.


	4. The Student

AN: TF:Animated for a change. This was for a "fembots" prompt, and Blackarachnia moved in and had her say. This one is set during "Predacons Rising".

* * *

"You might as well relax in there Wasp, sweetie. This isn't a quick process. I'm telling you this as a friend, of course. And I AM your friend. I see a lot of myself in you. If I were stupider. But really, I was naieve once, too. I even trusted the Autobots. I listened to their lies about honor and friendship and look where it got me. Feh.

Autobots, you can keep them. Although they do make useful dupes. Not you, of course, sweetie.

You see, despite what certain fleshy pipsqueaks may say about me, I didn't set out to be a bad girl. And honestly, every trick I know I learned from Megatron.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not one of those simpering sycophants who worship his skidplate. I just have an appreciation for his style. He's a bot who knows how to manipulate. That part comes easily enough. Just find a few dim-sparks with heavy actuators, appeal to their vanity and you can get them to do anything for you. And I can put up with quite a bit of "Spider Lady" for the kind of destruction those Dinos can dish out. Considering that two of them don't talk at all, I'm going to count myself ahead of ol' Megs with his Lugnut and Blitzwing.

But it goes beyond that. I'll give you a piece of advice for free, Waspy dear. Hold on to your anger. Nothing makes a tender spark squirm like a faceful of righteous indignation. Megatron scares the Autobots. And so do I. We make them face their failures, their hipocracy, the hollowness of their ideals. Even when all of your weapons are depleted and you've run out of places to flee, you can hold off your enemies for a long time with nothing but your anger. So cherish it.

And I have reason to be angry. I do. No one knows better than I do what it's like to be abandoned and betrayed by my former so-called friends. Cowards! They never even came back for me. I expected as much from obedient Optimus, but I thought...hoped...maybe Sentinel. Since it was all his FAULT! Rrragh! And now I'm stuck like THIS. I hate myself. And you know something else, my buzzing friend. Megatron knows. It's how he keeps us smart ones in line. He sees how much we hate ourselves and he always, ALWAYS reminds us what dragged us to him in the end.

So I'm keeping my distance. Yeah, I heard he got reactivated somehow. But I'm betting the Autobots will keep him distractred enough not to wonder whatever happened to little old me. And in the meantime, I'm carrying out my own plans.

You're doing just fine, Wasp. I know it hurts, but think of how much stronger and more powerful you'll be once it's over. And then...well...maybe you can learn a few things from me."


	5. The Errand

AN: Written for the CiD drabble project. This one called for a prank by someone not known for pranking. The basic structure of the prank might be familiar to anyone with military or scouting experience. Both my sister (Army) and my husband (Marines) have had similar experiences.

* * *

The grounded shuttle gleamed golden in the bright Earth sunlight. The exposed aft and thrusters of the buried Ark glowed a mellower bronze back at it. And Hot Rod stood alone at the foot of the shuttle's ramp and felt uncomfortable.

It was logical that Ultra Magnus walked off with Optimus Prime as soon as he was done with his brief review-and-welcome of the new troops. The two Commanders obviously had important business to discuss. It was equally reasonable that Kup left immediately afterwards with a high-strung red and white Autobot named Red Alert. The old sergeant would be assuming security duties under Red's command. When Springer grabbed Arcee and they both took off with a friendly black and white Autobot, Hot Rod was dismayed. He had hoped the triple changer might also include him in his introductions. But when Blurr abruptly vanished not an astrosecond later on some high speed errand of his own, the young soldier felt abandoned.

He looked up at the shuttle. Maybe he should go back inside and test the systems or something until someone came to get him. He turned and then froze as the roaring whine of aircraft engines filled the air. Four craft sped overhead, banked sharply and then whirled through their transformations to drop lightly to the ground a few yards away. Hot Rod drew his weapon, listening for an alarm, for the sound of rushing feet or running motors as the Autobots responded to this brazen attack. But three of the jet-formers gazed contemptuously down at him while the fourth one tapped significantly at the Autobot symbol on his shoulder.

"Put down the gun, New Metal," he said sardonically. "We're friends."

Awkwardly, Hot Rod holstered his blaster, "Sorry," he said. "Where I come from..."

"Autobots don't fly?" the flyer said. "Yeah, we get that."

"Sorry," Hot Rod repeated. He now remembered that Ultra Magnus had briefed them on the Autobots' new flyers...the Aerialbots. But it was hard to change ingrained programming. For his whole life the drill had been, 'when something flies overhead; you duck, take cover, and fire back'.

"So," the Aerialbot said with a smirk, "where're you from, Shiny?"

"My name's Hot Rod. I'm from the Autobot colony on Tsathoggua."

"Well I'm Slingshot, Shiny." the Aerialbot said, taking a step closer. "I was built on Cybertron and once we've kicked the 'cons off this mudball planet, I'll be going back there. So, you show some respect, understand?"

Hot Rod looked over the belligerent 'bot's shoulder. The other three Aerialbots hadn't moved and their faces were impassive. He wondered if they'd jump in or not when he decked Slingshot.

"I said. 'Do you understand?'" Slingshot repeated, poking Hot Rod in the chest. He tensed. He may be new, but no one pushed him around.

"Well, what's going on here?" a new voice drawled from over his shoulder. Slingshot took a step back and drew himself to attention.

"Nothing, Ironhide," he yipped.

Hot Rod spared the flyer a thin smile before he turned and fired off a sharp salute.

"Autobot Hot Rod reporting for duty, sir!" he announced.

The red Autobot narrowed his optics. "Ain't that nice," he said. "But I ain't no "sir". I'm Ironhide and you can call me that, Hot Rod."

Hot Rod goggled, as much as he could without moving. Ironhide was an Autobot legend. He was the Prime's personal bodyguard and had stood against Megatron himself in thousands of campaigns. Kup knew hundreds of stories about Ironhide and Hot Rod guessed there were hundreds more even he didn't know.

"Yes Ironhide" he said.

"And now that we've got that all settled, I need you to do a little job for me, Hot Rod," the red Autobot said.

Hot Rod felt a mingled sense of pride and relief. He was going to be given an important task by Ironhide, and someone with an important task obviously had no time to stand around and take abuse from rude jerks like Slingshot. "Right away," he said.

"Good. I need you to look around and get me a grid coordinate square. Ok?" Ironhide said.

"Sure thing!" Hot Rod stepped back and transformed, tearing off down the hill and into the shadowed interior of the Ark. As he entered the ancient ship he called up the internal navigation system and followed the map toward Supply. He arrived in just a few astroseconds and congratulated himself on his resourcefulness. No one needed to give Hot Rod any directions. He transformed and entered the massive supply bay.

Hot Rod looked around at the profusion of objects stored in the enormous room. There were stacks of metal beams, plating, containers of bolts and rivets, coils of wire, barrels of chemicals, circuit boards, transistors, resistors and actuators, batteries, terminals, cases and an entire row of mysterious colorful and soft Earth items. Everything was neatly shelved and labeled and he began to search.

First he tried looking with the metal stock, but he couldn't find it. Then he looked in the devices, no luck. He tried the building supplies and the field equipment. At about this time the door opened again and a tall, yellow Autobot came in.

"Are you looking for something?" he asked in a piercing, but not unkind voice. "My name's Grapple and I use these supplies quite often. I might be able to help."

"Ironhide sent me for a grid coordinate square, Grapple" Hot Rod said to the friendly 'bot. "But it's not where I'd expect it to be."

The tall Autobot looked up at the celing for a moment, apparently running things through his processor. "I don't believe we keep them here," he said after a moment. "Why don't you see if Wheeljack's got one in his lab. It's the annex outside the entrance on the left."

"Thanks, Grapple," Hot Rod said, with a grateful nod. Then he transformed and hurried away.

The annex was right where Grapple had said it would be, and Hot Rod took note of the various blackened patches and repaired holes that were additional confirmation that this was the workplace of the Autobots' brilliant but reckless inventor. Wheeljack was, in his way, as much of a legend as Ironhide and Hot Rod was anxious to meet him. He transformed and rapped lightly on the workshop door. After a moment, the door slid open and a cheerful voice called, "C'mon in!"

Hot Rod stepped into the long room that made up the interior of the workshop. It was a massively cluttered contrast to the neat supply bay and Hot Rod knew that if he had to look for his square here, he'd be as old as Ironhide before he found it. He hoped that Wheeljack knew where all of his gear was.

"Hello Hot Rod," said a familiar voice from a nearby table. "I'm glad you found your way here. I was telling Wheeljack all about you. He seemed interested in you, of course, but he's a good fellow and I think he's interested in all the Autobots, purely from a scientific standpoint, I guess, but maybe not. Anyway, I'm here for a systems check, which I think is a good idea. I mean it's been a long time since I've had my systems seen to and I'd hate for there to be something wrong, wouldn't you?"

"Uh," said Hot Rod as his processor struggled to catch the point of his friend's rapid-fire comments. "Yes, I'm glad you're getting checked, Blurr. Is Wheeljack around?"

"I'm over here," and the bowlegged inventor emerged from behind a freestanding shelf. "You're Hot Rod. Welcome to Earth and what can I do for ya?" Wheeljack stuck out a square hand, which Hot Rod looked at.

"It's a human custom," Wheeljack explained. "Put out your hand the same way."

Hot Rod did so and the inventor grabbed his hand, jerked it up and down three times and then released it.

"See, it's meant to be friendly," Wheeljack said as the young Autobot looked down at his hand curiously. "Humans expect it, so I've kind of gotten in the habit. Anyway, did you need something or were you just stopping by to be neighborly?"

"I need something, for Ironhide," he explained as the inventor turned to Blurr and opened a panel in the blue 'bot's leg.

"Mmmhhhmmm?" Wheeljack made an encouraging noise as he poked around at Blurr's actuators with a slender tool.

"I need a grid coordinate square," Hot Rod said.

"What's that? I've never..." Blurr started. But Wheeljack cut him off.

"I don't have one right now, Hot Rod. I'm sorry. But if you go to Teletraan-One you can find out where they're stored."

Hot Rod was relieved to have a good lead. "Thanks!" he said and hurried out.

The remnant of the Ark's command bridge was the closest general access point for the Autobot supercomputer Teletraan-One. And the bridge was unoccupied when Hot Rod arrived. He stood before the enormous screen and looked up for a moment at flickering images of Earth that came in as constant transmissions from the Sky Spy satellites. It was a very varied planet. His own home had been mechaformed long ago and was very similar to Cybertron, if somewhat less majestic. But this organic planet was so new and strange. He wondered if he would enjoy his time here. The expanses of liquid water were his favorites, he decided. He liked how they constantly moved. But he had a job to do.

"Teletraan-One," he announced. "I need to do a search."

"New user voiceprint: state access code and authorization," the computer replied.

"Scrap!" Hot Rod swore to himself. He didn't have an access code for this system. How frustrating. "Uh, hold on an astrosecond." he turned around, looking for the best direction to go in to find someone in authority. At just that second a black and white Autobot loped in, followed by Springer and Arcee.

"Hi Hot Rod," the femmebot said.

"Oh, hello Arcee," he replied, somewhat coolly. She had left him standing around to go with Springer, after all.

"Hey," the unfamiliar Autobot said. "How's it goin', man?"

Springer stepped forward. "Jazz, this is Hot Rod. He's a good kid. Hot Rod, this is Jazz. He's Prime's lieutenant now, but we served together for quite a few orns back in Nova Cronum. I'm sorry if we left you back there, but I was just so pleased to see this slagger that I forgot."

Hot Rod recognized the name. "Nice to meet you, Jazz," he said politely. Then, he stepped forward and stuck out his hand. Springer and Arcee looked baffled, but Jazz smiled slyly and took the offered hand. He shook it twice and then ended up with a little bump that clanged their knuckles together.

"You didn't tell me this cat was an interplanetary traveller," Jazz said, nudging Springer with his elbow. "That's some serious good Earth manners there."

Springer narrowed his optics at Hot Rod and Arcee smiled, but Jazz continued. "What d'you need ol' Teletraan for, Rod?"

"Wheeljack sent me here. But I forgot to ask him to give me an authorization code." Hot Rod explained.

"That's no problem," Jazz said with a wide smile. "I'm happy to help. What's Wheeljack looking for?"

"Uh, no," Hot Rod said. "It's me. I'm trying to find a grid coordinate square for Ironhide."

"Really?" Jazz said with another smile. "Well I can tell ya, Teletraan's not going to be much help. What you need to do is take a look in the Command area. Grid Coodinate Squares are definitely the kind of thing that Command would keep on hand."

Hot Rod shook his head. "I should have thought of that. Thanks a lot Jazz!" And he hurried off.

The Command area occupied several smaller rooms in an section behind the bridge. Hot Rod heard soft voices coming from one of the rooms, so he decided to search one of the unoccupied ones first. This room had a large table piled with datapads and a chair sized for a tall Autobot. Various souveniers were placed on shelves and in niches throughout the room. A pair of weapon brackets stood empty above the door. Hot Rod started looking on the closest shelf where there were some very interesting devices, all broken or mangled in some way. He picked each object up to examine it.

"Hot Rod! What are you doing?" came a shocked cry from behind him.

A cone shaped segment of some device clanged to the floor as he whirled to see Ultra Magnus and (scrap!) Optimus Prime standing together in the door to the room.

"What are you doing in Prime's office?" Ultra Magnus demanded.

"I...uh...I," the young Autobot stammered. Then his processor kicked in. He stood to attention and saluted both Commanders. "Ultra Magnus, sir. Optimus Prime, sir! I am attempting to locate an object required by Ironhide. On his direct orders!"

"Oh really?" Optimus Prime asked calmly. "Did he tell you what this object was?"

"Yessir!" and he added another salute for good measure. "He directed me to located a Grid Coordinate Square."

"Indeed?" Prime said. "Well then, Autobot Hot Rod, you should keep on looking. I'm sure you'll find one eventually." And he took Ultra Magnus by the shoulder and led him back down the hallway.

Hot Rod sagged with relief. Apparently Prime wasn't upset at him being in the office and it looked like he was finally on the right track. He began searching again with more focus, but he took care not to disturb the items as he went through them. The Prime had so many things in here. He found a box labeled "Grids" at one point, but it only contained a stack of papers. He was concentrating so hard on his search that he didn't hear the sound of the door opening. Therefore he jumped again when someone behind him spoke.

"And just what do you think you're doing, lad?" Hot Rod looked around to see Kup leaning against the doorframe. "Red Alert was ready to call out the entire base on you for being in here so long. But I told him I'd come down and find out what you're up to."

"Oh Kup," Hot Rod sighed, discouraged for perhaps the first time in his entire short life. "Ironhide gave me a job. I'm looking for something for him."

"Really? It's good of you to want to help. What did he ask for?" the veteran asked, stepping into the room and allowing the door to close behind him.

"He wants a Grid Coordinate Square." Hot Rod explained. "I've looked everywhere and got a lot of help, but I just can't find one."

Kup shook his head slowly, "Lad, it's been a long time since I've had a recruit as young as you. But let's see if we can't work this out logically."

"All right," said Hot Rod. Maybe there was some logic beyond just looking.

"Now if I were to send you to a coordinate, where would you go?" Kup asked.

"Um, I'd go to a particular place on the map. The coordinates mean the numbers that designate a particular place on the map, and on the planet." Hot Rod said.

"Right," Kup said with a pleased smile. "And a grid square is?"

"One unit of measurement on a map." The light began to dawn for Hot Rod. "So, it's not a thing, exactly. It's more of an idea. It's a place on the map, and a place on the planet."

"And..." Kup said encouragingly.

"I need to look at a map and find a place, and then give Ironhide the coordinates for that square of the map grid!" Hot Rod finished triumphantly.

"EXACTLY!" Kup crowed.

Hot Rod remembered the sheets in the "Grids" box. He checked, and sure enough, they were maps of Earth. He spread one out on the table and looked over it, noting the markings along the sides that indicated the coordinates.

Kup turned to leave, but stopped in the doorway. "A word of advice, lad. Pick somewhere interesting." And he walked out.

* * *

The sun had lowered, casting the shuttle into the volcano's shadow when Hot Rod emerged from the entrance to the Ark. He was unsurprised to see Ironhide still with the Aerialbots next to the ship. The jet-formers stood around, looking bored, but the old red Autobot was resting comfortably on the ramp. Hot Rod trotted up to them, clutching a datapad.

"Well now, Hot Rod," Ironhide said, heaving himself to his feet. "What have you got for me?"

Hot Rod waved the datapad. "I've got what you asked for Ironhide. The coordinates for a grid square."

The red Autobot's optics gleamed a bright blue. "So, you figured it out, hmm?"

"Well," Hot Rod had to be honest. "I had some help."

"I'd say you did," shouted someone from behind the shuttle. And Hot Rod watched, bemused as Grapple, Wheeljack, Blurr, Jazz, Springer, Arcee, Ultra Magnus, Kup and Optimus Prime emerged from around the sides. "But he was persistent, 'Hide," Jazz continued. "I think he would have gone to everyone in the Ark in turn if we had sent him."

Hot Rod looked around at the assembled group. From the smirks and amused glowing optics he realized that they had all been in on the joke. All of them. A whoop of laughter from Slingshot forced him to turn and face the Aerialbot.

"That was pretty dumb, Shiny," he snickered. "I can just imagine you rushing from place to place, "sir-ing" and "please-ing" everyone. What an skidplate-polishing aft. Primus below!" he snorted. "That's a good one, 'Hide."

"It's Iron-hide, you flying punk," the red Autobot growled as he stepped up to Slingshot. The Aerialbot shrank back. "And I'll let you know why I gave our young friend here the job in the first place. I was gonna send him on a recon mission to his chosen location, give him a chance to get to know the neighborhood a little bit. But now I think I have a better idea." He held out his hand and Hot Rod wordlessly put the datapad into it. Ironhide looked down at the screen and a slow smile crossed his faceplates.

"You're in luck, Slingshot." Ironhide drawled. "Young Hot Rod has chosen a place of unspoiled natural beauty. And YOU are going to get to survey it for us. Take accurate measurements and we'll see you in about a week."

He handed the datapad to Slingshot who glared down at it, blanched, and then squared his shoulders. Then he wordlessly jumped into his transformation and flew away. The other Aerialbots watched him go and shared a rueful glance and shrug among themselves.

"Where did you pick, kid?" Springer asked in the silence.

"I chose a place that looked and sounded interesting. It's on this beautiful river called the Amazon," Hot Rod explained.

At that, the assembled Autobots broke into laughter. But Hot Rod felt he had missed the joke again.


	6. Antic Disposition

AN: This one was a response to the prompt "Out-of-Character". I'm really bad at wacky shenanigans, but I figured I could come up with something and I thought a serious, thoughtful Grimlock would be a good start. And perhaps you'll notice a bit of a nod to all the time travel in the TF Universe.

* * *

"There's something wrong with him," the engineer said.

"How do you know?" the medic responded. "He checked out all right last time I repaired him."

"He's been quiet," the engineer replied. "And he's been going off on his own."

"Ha! There's nothing wrong with a little more quiet around here," the medic said, throwing a burnt out capacitor into the discard box.

"He won't even tell the other Dinobots where he's going. He shakes them off and disappears," the engineer twisted his fingers together anxiously.

"Are they worried?" the medic asked.

"Not exactly…"the engineer said slowly. "They're not good at _worry_."

"That's fine then," the medic said with a significant look at his friend. "Makes a nice change from certain mother-hen-'bots I can think of."

The engineer bristled. "You think I'm overreacting."

"No," the medic said thoughtfully as he coiled a length of wire into a neat bundle. "But acting out of character isn't necessarily a sign that there's a problem. Have you asked him about it?"

"Well, no, to be honest," the engineer said with a shrug. "You know how touchy he can be. I'm afraid he'll decide I've been spying on him."

"And revert to type by blowing up at you, hmm?" The medic said slyly. "So you're not completely upset by the changes, then?"

"It's not that," the engineer protested. "I'd like him no matter how he acts, but I hate the idea that he might have a problem and feel that he can't talk to anyone about it."

The medic favored his friend with a rare fond smile. "Wheeljack, you're one of the best Autobots I know. But your creations are not known for their subtlety. If there's a problem, I'm sure he'll let us know about it. But I promise to keep a watchful optic on the big lizard and I'll let you know if I detect anything wrong."

"Thanks, Ratchet," Wheeljack said, clapping his hand with a hearty _clunk_ on his friend's square shoulder.

It was less than an hour after the engineer left that the very subject of their conversation came clomping into the Med Bay.

"Me Grimlock want to ask you Ratchet question," the Dinobot leader announced.

The medic was a bit taken aback at the request. Grimlock usually got straight to the point.

"Of course, Grimlock, what can I do for you?" Ratchet replied, settling himself on a convenient seat.

The Dinobot peered down at him for a moment. "Me Grimlock want to know if you ever build any other Dinobot."

"Other Dinobots?" the medic asked. "You mean other than you, Slag, Sludge, Swoop and Snarl."

"Yes." The ponderous head nodded once. "Any _other _Dinobot. Before."

"No," Ratchet said slowly. "We had never seen any dinosaurs before coming to Earth. There's nothing like you on Cybertron."

"Hmmpf, obviously not," Grimlock seemed oddly pleased by the comment.

It was at this point that Sparkplug Witwicky, Ratchet's human assistant, came walking into the Med Bay. He stopped, arrested by the intense glare Grimlock had fixed on him.

"You, human, you answer Grimlock question?" It wasn't exactly a request, but Sparkplug was used to the imperious Dinobot's treatment.

"Sure, Grim, what do you want to know," he said, striding in to put a small paper sack down on the short, wide table that he used for a workspace.

"You tell me when humans make TV show about Dinobot," Grimlock announced.

Again the human stopped and stared up at the huge robot. "Uh, I don't think we've ever made a show about you Dinobots…unless you mean that thing that was on the TV news a month ago."

"No," Grimlock said, waving the suggestion away. "This show "Adventures of Dinobot". He valiant warrior."

The human and the Autobot shared a puzzled look. Shades of 'I don't know what he's talking about either' drifted between them.

"You can not answer question?" Grimlock asked, almost eagerly.

"Sorry Grimlock. I don't think there's ever been anything like that," Sparkplug admitted as he removed a meaty sandwich from his paper bag and took a big bite. "A show about the Dinobots _would_ be interesting, though," he said around a mouthful of corned beef.

"Yes," Grimlock said. He turned on his heel and left the room.

"What was that all about?" Sparkplug asked.

"Slagged if I know," Ratchet replied.

"Should we worry?" the human wondered.

"I don't _think_ so," the medic replied. "I think he's developing an imagination."

"Will wonders never cease," Sparkplug said, and took another big bite.

* * *

Grimlock was happy. He could return and enjoy his treasure in peace. His nagging doubts were gone. Neither the Autobots nor the little humans had anything to do with his find. It was his. A pure, Dinobot thing. And he was learning so much from it.

The big robot passed through the doorway into the spacious cave that the Autobots had taken to calling the "Dinobot Closet". He had sent the other Dinobots outside for training, so none of them saw thim go through the rough crack at the back that led to a winding tunnel. The tunnel narrowed in places, but he had blasted and bashed his way through to its end. It opened into a spacious chamber beneath the Ark. There was even an old cargo door on the exterior of the ship, unable to open more than a few feet and so useless to the massive inhabitants of the base. The floor here had once been molten lava in places, but that had long since cooled and hardened. Stalactites and stalactites festooned the outer hull of the ancient craft and over on the side of the room was a little bunker cluttered with an extraordinary collection of objects.

There were crates, armor plating, circuit boards, weapon barrels, various tiny and delicate instruments and a whole wall of screens. All of them were broken, except one. Grimlock activated a tiny button and the screen glowed to life.

Another button and the images appeared. They were wavery and the accompanying soundtrack warbled and hissed, but it was good enough. Grimlock shifted into his T-Rex form to squeeze his head in closely to the tiny screen.

_ "Fear not, Optimus! I shall ensure your funeral is a glorious one, as befits a warrior who died in battle!"  
_

_ "'Fraid I'll have to miss it, Dinobot; I'm not scrap yet!"  
_

_ "Hmm, are you certain? It would be a triumphant passage."_

"Triumphant passage, yes," Grimlock murmured to himself.


	7. Emo Door

AN: G1-Written in a fit of inspiration caused by the ongoing "Emo Door" gag on Comics in Disguise. The immortal image is here. i252 (dot) photobucket (dot) com/albums/hh1/crawdadEmily/EmoDoorHangerpng (dot) png

Credit/Blame goes to the amazing Prowl for the idea. For the uninitiated, just imagine there's a big bulkhead door somewhere in the Ark where Mirage goes to sit and sulk. Such is its power that it draws other 'bots as well. However, not everyone knows about it. Hence the story.

* * *

The brilliant Autobot scientist, Perceptor, walked briskly through the cavernous halls of the Ark. His optics were fixed on the datapad in his hand and his processor was occupied with contemplating the particularly fascinating trans-organic molecule displayed on the device. Suddenly, he tripped. The datapad flew from his hand and skidded into a dark corner as the red and blue scientist sprawled gracelessly to the floor. As he clambered to his feet, and recovered his thankfully undamaged computer, he scanned the floor for the obstacle that had precipitated his ungainly stumble. Finding nothing of note, he examined the space more minutely, employing his powerful optical cannon to illuminate the floor micrometer by micrometer.

"Go away," sighed a soft voice by his knee. Perceptor scanned about for the source of the sound and as he did, he finally noticed a sign on a nearby door. With a sad shake of his head, he switched off his light cannon and turned to go back the way he had come.

A few astroseconds later, Perceptor arrived in the medical bay of the Ark. Wheeljack and Ratchet turned as the door opened, but before they could say anything, he announced in his most precise and clipped tones, "It seems that Mirage is sitting in front of the Emo Door again." Having delivered his message, the scientist reactivated his datapad and walked out of the room.


End file.
